


Late December, Back In '63

by diadema



Series: Small Cheer and Great Welcome [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Multi, New Years, Romance, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-02-28 03:43:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: What a lady, what a night.After a mission causes the team to miss Christmas, Gaby is even more determined to celebrate. As she reasons, Christmas and New Years are one and the same in Russia. She's not letting Illya get away that easily.





	1. We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fauna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauna/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small way of saying thank you to fauna for her constant positivity and encouragement. Please know that your kindness all throughout our fandom does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. <3
> 
> ***  
> I ended up combining Christmas and New Years into one fic. A little late getting it to you, but the year is still technically new, right? Many thanks to Somedeepmystery for assuaging my midnight hour concerns about this chapter and giving me her blessing to post. :)
> 
> This story exists in the same continuity as its previous installments, so if you haven't read my other two holiday stories just yet, it might help to understand some of the little runners. Otherwise, it should pretty much stand on its own!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please enjoy... comments always appreciated. :)

There is something to be said about Russian luck. Christmas has come and gone without incident, without fanfare, without any kind of warning at all.

In other words, Illya has dodged a bullet.

But there is _also_ something to be said about Russian justice, about how Lady Luck, with her _ushanka_ and monkey’s paw, is nothing if not equitable.

 _Certainly,_ Gaby thinks, this isn’t what her partner had had in mind.

 

* * *

 

They are in Chinatown when they receive their summons.

Black Friday acquisitions in tow, the team had hurried back to headquarters. Back to Waverly’s office and the dreadful urgency that awaits them there.

They are never _truly_ off the clock.

Waverly accepts their office-warming gifts with a furrowed brow and a bemused smile… and offers them his deepest apologies in return. A new threat, a new mission. Kerguelen Islands. Effective immediately.

“Kerguelen, sir?” Solo frowns. As if pained to admit it, he adds, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Not many have,” their boss says. “These so-called ‘Isles of Desolation’ are among the _most_ remote to be found on this entire wide, wide world.”

“You’ll need to catch a boat,” he continues, handing them their dossiers. Gaby braces herself when she sees the man’s pained expression. “That _boat_ only travels to the Kerguelen Islands four times a year."

“It’s not bringing us back.”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Teller.” Waverly sighs, aggrieved. “But, I _assure_ you, I will find a way to get you out. You _will_ be home for Christmas.”

“Take your time,” Illya mutters beneath his breath. Gaby is the picture of studious, professional innocence as she grounds her heel into the Russian’s foot. She smiles at the Englishman.

“And when do we leave, sir?”

“The boat leaves tomorrow from Madagascar. It’s a seventeen hour flight from New York, so I suggest you get moving. Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby and her partners have spent three, truly miserable weeks traversing the Indian Ocean: their only entertainment being Illya’s chess set and Waverly’s recently completed _Logan King_ manuscript—the latter of which had surreptitiously appeared in her luggage.

Solo had been delighted to discover it… until he’d begun to read it.

To quote her American partner, Gaby’s encouragement of their boss’ novelist aspirations are “shameless”, “incorrigible”, and, her personal favorite, “a hate crime against _true_ literature”. But Gaby _thrills_ for the unrepentant and unironic pulpiness of the Brit’s hard-boiled detective.

Logan King’s reliance on 1940s American slang—which her boss has _assured_ her is “period accurate”—is such as to render him nearly unintelligible, but his grim observances about the human condition and the heavily-stylized, seedy underbelly of New York just leave her world _that_ much brighter because of it.

Illya’s reaction to the manuscript had been no less indicting.

“Please stop him,” he’d whispered. Gaby had snatched back _Logan King_ with an irritated huff… and proceeded to read choice passages aloud to her partners for the rest of their trip.

 _They would do well to expand their cultural horizons_ , she’d declared.

At long last, the trio had arrived, restless and stir-crazy, on the Île Gaby. Even less charming than sharing a name with their destination is learning that it is also one of the most _diminutive_ islands in the area.

The Île Gaby is bitterly cold and utterly inhospitable. A perfect mirror for her own mood. The holiday spirit cannot touch them here—indeed, any thoughts of Christmas had been lost long ago at sea. Time seems to work differently here. Gaby counts the days by the domino-chain of disasters and crises: one after another after another.

It is a messy mission, but they do eventually locate the THRUSH’s newest and, frankly, most alarming research facility. Messy, but not in vain.

The facility is manned almost exclusively by the hundred or so French scientists (the Kerguelen Islands’ only inhabitants) who had been conscripted into service. The team makes quick work of the handful of THRUSH operatives present and set to work cataloguing evidence and making contact with Waverly.

Over the crackling hiss of static, they are told to expect a helicopter.

 

* * *

 

From Madagascar, it is another thirteen hours by plane to London. They are all three exhausted, battered, and bruised. _Aching_ for their various creature comforts: food that does not come from cans—and which is _not_ mutton or cabbage (the two Kerguelen staples)—bubble baths, expensive scotch, sleeping in one’s own bed again.

It is almost paralyzing to step out into the commercialized Winter Wonderland of London. While nothing like the aggressive advertising of New York, it is no less shocking after their seeming exile.

Judging by the way Solo squints against the neon-lit storefronts and the riotous reds and greens surrounding them, he’s finally starting to empathize with Illya’s culture shock.

Gaby glances between the two men, feeling rather dazed herself. She hails a cab and half-pulls, half-drags them in after her. They ride in silence back to her apartment. It is not until their driver passes on his holiday wishes that they realize that the date is, in fact, the 25th of December.

Not even the American can muster up the goodwill to celebrate.

Instead, they stumble into Gaby’s flat—only to be greeted by a tiny, black-and-white ball of fur. Macavity yowls at them, rubbing against their legs before stalking off to retrieve a felt mouse. Gaby notes, too, the smart, new collar that the kitten is sporting. She smiles despite herself.

Waverly spoils Macavity rotten.

Speaking of the Englishman, he has left a hearty stew simmering on the stove, re-stocked her bare cupboards, and set the table for three. There is a tea kettle just beginning to whistle and a note wishing them all a Happy Christmas and praising their fine work.

These unexpected kindnesses revive their spirits immeasurably. Macavity kneads into Gaby’s lap while the three agents make quick work of Waverly’s home cooking. They are warmed, though not surprised, to find that her couch has been made up with fresh sheets and blankets.

Solo quickly takes to it, Macavity purring his contentment close behind, while Illya looks around in increasing bewilderment for any sign of a cot or sleeping bag.

Gaby knows there isn’t one.

There simply isn’t room for it in her shoebox of an apartment—especially not to accommodate a giant like Illya. She covers her smile at the reddening of her partner’s ears as he reaches the same conclusion.

He is already edging towards the door—to return to his own place or sleep on the kitchen tile perhaps—until Gaby tugs on his wrist.

“Stay,” she whispers.

He swallows, nods, and allows himself to be led down the hall. Gaby shushes his faint, gentlemanly protests as she pulls him into bed with her. He inhales sharply as she curls up against him.

Gaby’s eyes are fluttering shut when Illya draws the covers more securely over her and cautiously wraps an arm around her shoulder.

He may have dodged a bullet for Christmas, she thinks sleepily, but no one said anything about New Year’s. Which, according to Solo, were really just one and the same in Russia.

Gaby hums, content, and nestles closer to Illya’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "December, 1963" by The Four Seasons.
> 
> The Kerguelen Islands and the Ile Gaby ARE real and inhabited by between 50 - 100 French scientists. Perfect place to host a THRUSH facility, right? :)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	2. Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to name the chapters after Carole King songs (they are inspiring my Muse right now, so let's just go with it). Chapter 1 is now sporting a shiny, new title and the theme shall carry on through the rest of the chapters. :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading... and for all the lovely comments! They warm my heart so much. Thank you. <3

She is alone when she awakes.

Her room is bathed in a fairytale glow: all honeyed hues and syrupy, spun-gold sunshine. The birds aren’t singing, but... _someone_ is.

A soothing baritone drifts in through her open door: words indistinguishable, tone rich and full.

 _Is that Solo_?

Gaby groans, finally manages to sit upright. She drags a palm over her face and listens to the singer for a moment. A jazzy, cabaret-style song. _Definitely Solo._

Her eyes are still half-closed when she wobbles onto her feet and starts shuffling towards the kitchen and the fragrant, enticing aromas that call to her.

Gaby stumbles into a chair and she curses. Profusely. The song cuts out mid-word—a quick exchange between her partners, faint laughter—before resuming again. Louder this time, now that they know she is awake.

The mechanic glares at the offending piece of furniture… only to see Illya’s jacket draped neatly on top of it. Her fingers run lazily over the brown suede.

A brilliant idea comes to her.

Gaby glances surreptitiously around her before slipping the jacket on. She breathes in his scent, warmed already by the familiarity of it. She sighs and walks over to her full-length mirror, careful to shut the door firmly behind her.

Her reflection pouts back at her as Gaby inspects herself. Long enough to be a dress on her and with her fingers barely peeking out from the sleeves, there is something endearing about her wearing his clothes.

But Gaby doesn’t want endearing, doesn’t want Illya to regard her with soft eyes and a slight smile when he sees her.

She wants to make him _blush._

Her smile is mischievous, wolfish even, as she shimmies out of her pajama bottoms. She shivers from the cool air on her bare legs, the drag of a zipper, the hem of his jacket grazing her thighs.

Now, when Gaby looks in the mirror, she is nothing but dark eyes and tanned, toned legs, her hair fanning out over her shoulders. Doll-like, but dangerous. _Perfect._

She smirks.

 _Wouldn’t Illya just_ love _to see this?_

Gaby salutes her reflection and twirls. Something in the jacket’s inside pocket hits her hip. Something small, square. Solid. _Something_ that feels very much like a box.

She swallows, her smile vanishing.

Gaby’s fingers fumble to pull out the hinged, padded box… knowing without looking that she will find a plain, gold band inside, one that matches the larger one around her neck.

She still looks.

 

* * *

 

 _“What is this?” he’d asked her. Illya had hooked a finger into her necklace and was slowly, teasingly lifting it up. Before he could get a glimpse of the pearl engagement ring (or, worse, the one from the_ barmbrack _), she had quickly stepped away from him._

_Gaby’s fingers had shaken as she retied her scarf. “I can’t tell you,” she shrugged, her heart pounding wildly. “Otherwise, it might not come true.”_

_“A wish, then.”_

_She had looked into Illya’s eyes and seen sincerity. Desire. Understanding. Confirmation of something unspoken between them. Gaby nodded._

_“Something like that.”_

 

* * *

 

Gaby regards the ring now in silence. All her former play is gone, replaced by something far more subdued. She returns the ring to its proper place and slowly, carefully removes Illya’s jacket. She folds it and drapes it back over the chair, before quickly getting dressed.

_Real clothes._

She attempts to slip quietly from her room… and ends up running right into Solo. He eyes her attire curiously, but that isn’t why he’s here. He lets it slide in favor of catching her by the arm and leaning in close.

“Gaby,” he whispers. Urgent. Concern creasing his handsome features. _“What_ did you to do to him? He’s. Singing.”

“You’re telling me,” she begins. Too loud. Solo winces and she lowers her voice, starts over. “You’re telling me that _that_ is Illya?”

“I haven’t been dabbling in ventriloquism if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Gaby huffs. Her insides are still quaking, but she steels her voice into something calm and icy and snatches back her arm. “I didn’t _do_ anything to him.”

“Sure, you didn’t,” he mutters. “Maybe the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future decided to pay him a visit last night.”

His eyes widen in mock-surprise. _“You_ wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you? I understand that you were with him during the hours in question.”

Gaby shoots him a withering look and deftly side-steps him. She is no mood for games. Not Solo’s and _definitely_ not her own. Before the man can read her expression and begin his interrogation, she walks out into the kitchen... where she can confirm that _yes_ , that is Illya wearing her apron and looking for all the world like an American housewife.

He sings pleasantly in Russian while he cooks, smiling when he sees her.

Not just smiling. _Beaming._

“Good _evening,”_ he greets her. Warm, singsong. He tilts his head to the side, taking in her capris and blouse with a sweep of his blue eyes.

“You’re dressed.”

Gaby clears her throat, resolutely _not_ thinking about clothes right now. She frowns, his earlier words catching up to her.

“Evening?”

Illya hums. “Yes. We seem to have slept in.”

He grins at his little joke and returns to the task at hand. _Golden light,_ Gaby remembers. Not the glow of late morning, but the final moments before the sun sets. She nods, staring dumbly at the tableau before her.

“You’re cooking.”

Illya arches an eyebrow, shrugs. “Cowboy deserves a break every now and then, no?”

Solo makes a strangled, little sound and  gestures helplessly at her. _Fix him_!

“I—I heard you singing earlier,” she says quickly, a pointed glare in the American’s direction. “What song was that?”

“Ah.” Illya smiles, nods. “Is old Russian song. My mother used to sing it all the time when I was young.”

Before Gaby can recover from her shock, Illya—the same Illya who just _voluntarily talked about his mother—_ places a heaping plate of food before her.

“No cabbage,” he promises and Gaby has to repress a shudder at the thought. He scuffs his foot, as though embarrassed. “I hope it still counts as traditional dish.”

Gaby looks down, startled, at the _rouladen:_ thin slices of beef wrapped around a mixture of pork, onions, and gherkins. No pickled red cabbage to accompany it, but there are mashed potatoes and a variety of roasted vegetables.

“It’s perfect, Illya,” she says and means it. “Thank you.”

His smile is _devastatingly_ earnest. Dazzling. He hands her a glass of wine, squeezing her shoulder as he passes.

“I’m going to call Waverly,” he announces. “Give him update.”

As soon as the Russian is out of sight, Solo throws himself into the chair beside her. She had forgotten he was still here.

“I need. To know. What you did. To. _Illya.”_

Gaby shakes her head, speaking in between unladylike bites of _rouladen._ “I can’t tell you, Solo. We shared a bed. Just like we did in Oslo.”

Solo sighs, though not entirely for her heathen table manners. “Only _this_ time, it wasn’t because you were scared and needed him. You just,” he pauses, before smirking, _“wanted_ him.”

He holds up his hands to defend himself from her protests or fists. But she merely shrugs, silent. Solo stares at her. She can hear the gears turning in his mind as he constructs an image from a handful of disjointed, puzzle pieces.

“Gaby,” he coaxes, “the man cooked _German_ food for you. He talked about his mother and sang. _Sang,_ Gaby. And not just any song either. _Ochi Chernye.”_

When the title fails to produce an effect on her, Solo shakes his head, exasperated by her lack of culture. Another sigh and a punishing roll of his eyes. _“Ochi Chernye,”_ he repeats, slowly. “It means Dark Eyes.”

He checks for any sign of their third partner before he starts to sing. A lighter timbre than Illya’s, but equally warm and resonant. He sings softly in English to that same, bluesy melody.

_“Oh, you dark, black eyes, full-of-passion eyes_

_Oh, you burning eyes, how you hypnotize_

_Now I love you so, but I fear you though_

_Since you glanced at me not so long ago._

 

_Oh, I see you now, you are dark and deep_

_I see grief and feel that my soul will weep_

_I see now in you a winning, burning glow_

_In my poor heart will a fire grow._

 

_I’m not sorrowful, I’m not repenting_

_I accept all that my fate’s presenting_

_All the best in life, God has given us:_

_This I sacrifice to you, dark, black eyes.”_

 

Solo gauges her reaction closely, his last note still hanging like a spell between them. There is a shadow of a smirk on his face. “Now, _who_ does this all remind you—or should I say, remind _Peril—_ of?”

Her face is burning, mind reeling. Gaby barely registers the question, still running the words over and over in her head. _Ochi Chernye_ , she mouths, memorizing the feel of it on her lips. She looks up at Solo with a guilty start.

“He still has the ring,” she blurts out. “In his jacket.”

Solo huffs. He nods, approving. “So, you found it.”

“Found what?” Illya asks as he returns from the other room. Solo leans back in his chair, the very definition of casual. He winks at Gaby.

“Her sense of humor,” he quips. “How unlike our Gaby to be so quiet, so _serious_ today.”

Illya frowns slightly. He presses the back of his hand to her forehead, touch cool, but burning her up all the same. “You are unwell?”

“I’m fine,” she lies. “Just tired.”

Solo stands, dusts off his suit. He shoots her a meaningful look. “Well, Gaby, I’d hate to intrude on your hospitality.” He goes to grab his suitcase (and Macavity’s carrier) before heading to the door. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she echoes weakly.

The door clicks shut behind the American and her heart begins to stutter erratically. Illya looks down at her, as surprised as she is to find himself alone with her.

“I should leave too,” he says, his voice a little huskier than usual.

 _You could stay,_ she wants to tell him. _You could stay as long as you want._ But she simply nods and lets him pass, remembering a little late to keep breathing.

Illya returns a moment later with his case. The sight of him in that jacket is enough to freeze her to the spot. He lingers in the doorway, considers something for a fraction too long. He bends and slowly presses a kiss to her temple.

She closes her eyes to it, holds back a sigh. Illya straightens and smiles softly down at her.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. _Tomorrow for me too?_

Gaby nods… because what could she possibly say? She’s tongue-tied. _Blushing._ Gaby waits until she can no longer hear his footsteps down her hall before turning clumsily on her heel. She heads to her room with the _distinct_ feeling that the tables had turned.

When the mechanic goes to sleep later, it is to a bed that feels too large, too _cold_ without the Russian beside her. Ridiculous. Gaby huffs and tries to calm her racing thoughts: a tangle of baritones and _Ochi Chernye_ … of dark, flashing eyes and the man who sees—and _loves—_ the pain held within them.

 _Oh, you dark, black eyes, full-of-passion eyes,_ she hums, a lullaby, a lifeline. _Oh, you burning eyes, how you hypnotize…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ochi Chernye is one of the most famous Russian love songs and is more in the cabaret tradition than it is a traditional folk song. The translation provided here is by Stefan Bogdanov and is a metrical translation (meaning it can be sung to the melody) that is very close to the original. The straight translation (from Wikipedia) is as follows:
> 
> "1.  
> Black eyes, passionate eyes,  
> Burning and beautiful eyes!  
> How I love you, how I fear you,  
> It seems I met you in an unlucky hour!
> 
> 2.  
> Oh, not for nothing are you darker than the deep!  
> I see mourning for my soul in you,  
> I see a triumphant flame in you:  
> A poor heart immolated in it.
> 
> 3.  
> But I am not sad, I am not sorrowful,  
> My fate is soothing to me:  
> All that is best in life that God gave us,  
> In sacrifice I returned to the fiery eyes!"


	3. Some Kind of Wonderful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience! This one was a beast to write... multiple drafts and the casual existential despair of the writing process. I hope you all enjoy it. :)  
> ***  
> A very quick PSA! As you may have seen at Christmas, we had 35 wonderfully-talented writers participate in our Winter Holiday Gift Exchange. Unfortunately, many of their fics are scattered, and in some cases, buried, in the tag (some going as far back as October)! BUT, there is a way to read and sort through all of them in one, [convenient location](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TMFUGiftExchange2017). You just might find a few that you've missed the first time around! Thanks for supporting your writers and helping to spread the love. <3  
> ***  
> With this chapter, I will have officially reached 100k words written for this fandom! Thanks for all the love and support. Please enjoy... comments always appreciated. :)

 “Tomorrow” dawns in drizzly, dove gray splendor: an early morning enchantment shattered by the abrupt knocking at her door. Brisk, dexterous. _American._

Gaby sighs, undoes the security chain and lets her partner in. “Morning, Dark Eyes,” he coos. Her glare trails him to the kitchen, falters when she makes to close the door… and finds her path blocked by a towering Russian.

She takes an involuntary step back, her pulse rabbiting away when Illya smiles at her. He holds up a box in greeting: pastries from her preferred German bakery. He had to have gone well out of his way to buy them.

“I brought breakfast.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Solo calls out from somewhere behind them. “I only suggested it, drove you there, and footed the bill. But, _by all means,_ Peril, take top billing on this one.”

There is something stabilizing in the way her partners needle each other. Their constant back-and-forth is comforting in its familiarity and Gaby finds herself relaxing, even with the Russian’s glowering.

He scoffs. “I paid for the _pfannkuchen._ Sensible breakfast item. _You_ paid for,” Illya waves his hand, dismissive, “ _bee sting cake.”_

“And you don’t approve because _bienenstich_ is a dessert,” Gaby says, filling in the rest. She shrugs. “It’s no less indulgent than dough that’s been deep-fried in lard and filled with jam.”

Solo raises his coffee mug in mock-salute. “Spoken like a true Berliner.”

Gaby rolls her eyes, shakes her head as she turns back to Illya. _It’s too early,_ she thinks, _for bad American puns and wounded Russian pride._ Before Illya can crush their breakfast entirely, she gentles the box from his hands, careful to let her fingers brush against his.

“Thank you, Illya,” she murmurs. His scowl settles into a mild, mindless frown and he hums in response, following her into the makeshift dining room. The American is already seated and smiling expectantly up at her.

“And thank _you,_ Solo.”

The man bats his baby blues. “ _Anything_ for you, Miss Teller.” That earns him a smack upside the head and earns _Gaby_ an approving grin from the Russian. Her heartbeat quickens. Solo laughs and pulls her chair out for her.

“Have a seat, Gaby, and eat, drink, and be merry.”

Freshly-brewed and impossibly superior to her own, Solo’s coffee is one of his more persuasive peace offerings. Gaby complies. A steaming mug is pressed into her hands while Illya begins serving up the pastries.

Soon, the three agents are enjoying a companionable, if quiet, breakfast: Solo disappearing behind his newspaper with a slice of _bienenstich_ , Illya munching contemplatively on a _berliner,_ and Gaby partaking of both… if only to avoid any bloodshed.

Her mind, however, is hurtling through time and space, veins thrumming with something stronger than caffeine or adrenaline. Her eyes drift to her Russian partner. As if magnetized, Illya turns to meet her gaze, a private smile on his lips.

A _deliberate_ rustle of the newspaper beside them has Gaby quickly looking away. Even barricaded by ink and paper, Solo’s smirk is palpable. Omniscient, almost.

Gaby downs the rest of her coffee and makes her way to the sink, snagging the last bit of Illya’s donut in the process. She catches Solo’s wink as the men begin clearing the table. A deep breath and a quick nod.

The time is coming, she knows, to set their plan into motion.

_Operation: Russian Christmas is a go._

 

* * *

 

Piled into Gaby’s car, they are alone on the road. But wrapped up in the blanketed stillness of snow and silence, it feels more like they are all alone in the _world._

Waverly had provided them an address in the Greater London area. _Official UNCLE housing,_ he had called it. The new, central hub for their team, though they were each free to keep their own apartments.

Gaby hums as she takes in the building—more akin to a French _chateau_ than their boss’ palatial Elizabethan estate. Manicured lawns, sculpted hedges, and a gleaming gate. Nondescript elegance. Modesty belied by character.

Even Illya seems to approve.

He casts a sly look at Gaby before whistling lowly. A dire impersonation of the American. _“Not too shabby,_ right, Cowboy?”

Solo’s expression runs the gamut from astonished to offended to grudgingly impressed and Gaby has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing.

The bright, blue eyes beside her widen at her amusement. Their owner smiles to himself, gratified, and sits up a little straighter in his seat.

Solo catches her eye in the rearview mirror. He lifts his brows, inclines his head towards their smug (and oblivious) partner. _He’s preening,_ he mouths.

Gaby can feel the mischief brewing in the backseat. Before the American can open his mouth, Waverly—in all his uncanny timing—appears in the distance. Solo sighs, aggrieved, as the man strolls up to greet them.

“Everybody on their best behavior,” he mutters. “That includes _you,_ Teller.”

A scoff from Illya. “Gaby is _always_ on best behavior.”

Her heart is fluttering in her chest, but her voice remains steady, _arch_ even. A gentle shrug and she sells the act. “I’m really not.”

Illya studies her a moment. Smiles. “No,” he concedes, much more fondly than she’d expected. “You’re really not.”

Gaby pointedly ignores Solo as she climbs out of the vauxhall. She can’t, however, ignore Waverly. The man hails them with a polite smirk—if there is such a thing—and a secretive, knowing look.

“Welcome home, chaps. Why don’t we take a look around?”

 

* * *

 

“I think you’ll find that all of the essentials have been provided,” the Brit says as they step into the foyer, “though you’re welcome to decorate as you see fit. To that end, I’ve already allocated funds for you to do with as you please.”

“Thank you, _sir_.” Solo beams at his newfound benefactor. A sidelong glance at Gaby, a hint of purpose in his tone. “It’s like Christmas all over again.”

Waverly nods, cottoning on. _“Precisely,_ Mr. Solo. And, seeing as you three didn’t get a chance to celebrate, I imagine some sort of housewarming festivities are in order. Kuryakin?”

Illya stiffens. “Yes, sir?”

“What with Christmas now behind us and the New Year fast approaching, I say why not enjoy both? That _is_ the Russian way, is it not?”

 _“Da,_ but—”

“Then it’s settled,” he declares. “I’m putting you in charge, Kuryakin. You’ll see to it that Grandfather Frost pays us each a visit, won’t you?”

Solo grins at his now-dumbstruck partner. “Just think, Peril. Our very own, Very Communist Christmas. Who would have thought?”

“Is not _Christmas,”_ he huffs. Illya hasn’t quite recovered from the shock, but it seems antagonizing him is a step in the right direction.

“But we will have a tree,” Gaby says, insistent. “And decorations and presents. _Just like_ in Russia.”

“And salads. Can’t forget about those.” Solo’s grin is dangerously goading. “Traditional Russian salads for the New Year.”

Illya’s eyes are twin flares: all blazing blue sparks and caution signs. He advances on Solo when Gaby intervenes. She puts herself between the two men.

 _“Please,_ Illya,” she whispers, reaching out to touch his arm. The muscles jump under her fingers and his head tilts down to look at her. A long, tortured gaze before his eyes slam shut. He sighs. Heavy.

“We can have housewarming and observe the holidays. _But—_ ” he raises a finger at Solo in warning, _“ —_ _no_ party.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. It’ll just be the three of us. _Four,_ ” he says, turning to Waverly, “if you don’t have anywhere else to be, sir.”

Their boss looks taken aback, but touched by the offer. “I just might take you up on that, Solo.” He clears his throat and gestures expansively. “I’d better leave you to it. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. And I do mean, _anything_. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “yes, sirs” and then the Englishman is gone.

“Thank you,” she says, a grateful, albeit smug, smile on her lips. Illya nods curtly, gaze sweeping around the room. More to steady himself than to take in the decor.

Gaby slips her hand into the crook of his arm, squeezes his bicep gently. Brings him back to her. “Come on, Illya. Let’s go look around.”

 

* * *

 

The manor is everything Gaby would have expected from UNCLE. Spacious, but not overwhelmingly so and tailored to suit each agent. It is understated enough to not offend Illya’s sensibilities, while still having an air of grandeur and history to appeal to Solo’s.

The doorways are tall enough that the men don’t have to stoop, but the drawers and cupboards are within easy reach for someone of the mechanic’s stature. There is a gourmet kitchen for Solo, an attached garage for Gaby, and an attic-turned-observatory for Illya.

The agents each have their own suites—while it doesn’t say it anywhere, it is clear to whom they belong. The American’s room is on the ground floor: easy for him to come and go as he pleases. He has a small sitting area, bedroom, and en suite bathroom.

Partially-furnished, the rooms have obviously been designed for a lover of art and antiquities. There is a hand-carved curio cabinet in the corner, plenty of natural light to illuminate everything _just so_ , and any number of ledges, alcoves, and pedestals to display artifacts from Solo’s collection.

The other two bedrooms are upstairs: Illya’s right off the landing and Gaby’s further down the hall. The Russian has quick access to both partners and can rest easy knowing he is the first line of defense for the mechanic’s room.

Illya’s bed is more than adequate to fit his giant frame. More than that, it allows a clear sightline to the road and surrounding area, while the lattice windows are meant to complicate an outside sniper’s shot.

There isn’t a dedicated sitting room like for the American, but rather, a different sort of space. She hears Illya’s breath catch when he discovers it: a dedicated dark room. A small, selfish part of her wonders if he will ever use it recreationally. Put spying and missions aside to simply enjoy a hobby.

She hopes so.

Gaby’s room is next. The mirrors and other fixtures have all been adjusted to her height and her third room has been converted into a workstation. Should she need more space to work on a project—or, more realistically, should Illya scold her for working when it was too late or cold or _anything—_ she could carry on in the peace and privacy of her own quarters.

The mechanic is expecting her bathroom to be luxurious. She is not expecting the stained glass window with the vibrant, dancing shadows it casts. Bright, beautiful, and indulgent. Waverly’s doing. She’s _certain_ of it.

The three agents explore the rest of the manor at their leisure. They have their own gym: padded mats on the floor, a mirrored wall with a ballet barre running the length of it. A punching bag strung up in the corner and all manner of weights.

Being spies, however, the team also has a concealed safe room with multiple points of access and a passageway that leads them out to the street. There is a projection room for briefings when they’re on the clock and for movies when they’re not. Beautiful gardens with a pond. A running path and a half-acre to explore and cultivate. Everything they could ask for and more.

The men talk animatedly, dreaming up ways to decorate and use the various spaces. Gaby tunes them out, chiming in with an occasional hum or a nod when they consult her opinion. A token gesture.

She trails her hand over a credenza, breathes into the strange aching in her chest.

While they won’t be moving in until the new year, this place already feels like home. More so than any of their apartments. More, even, than her childhood memories of Berlin: the years she spent with her father before the war, the life she built without him after.

The coming year, she knows, can be nothing short of momentous. Gaby feels it in her bones, feels it with every fibre of her being. Their upcoming celebration will mark infinitely more than another trip around the sun.

They will be commemorating a new home with their new agency and with this new _family_ that they’ve become since they started working together.

Gaby’s eyes flick to the Russian, still deep in conversation with Solo. If the American’s fortune-telling cake is to be believed, then 1964 holds something else for the two of them. Her wish hung round her neck and weighing down his pocket.

Four days left in 1963.

She’s not about to waste any of them.

 

* * *

 

Securing their _novogodnyaya yolka—_ their New Year’s Tree—had been a feat in and of itself. The majority had sold weeks ago: the few remaining were scrawny, sparse, and much less evergreen than brown.

As such, Solo had taken matters into his own hands.

Armed with an axe, a getaway driver, and a Soviet Paul Bunyan, they had tracked down a towering fir that had _all_ the hallmarks of a Hallmark Christmas.

A rather pleasant day had passed adorning its branches with pine cones, glass icicles, ball ornaments, and garlands of tinsel and pearl… and, at the top, a red, five-pointed star.

Peril had done the honors.

For his part, the man seemed to be enjoying the holiday preparations. At the very least, he didn’t seem to _hate_ them. He had even allowed his partners to put a wreath on the door (as well as juniper branches for, what he’d insisted were, _long life_ and _prosperity_ ), but had firmly drawn the line at stockings.

Still, it could be worse.

As soon as the their house is suitably festive and Peril has had as much fun as he can handle, Gaby grabs her keys and makes for the door. Solo turns from working on the _yolka_ and gives her a quick once-over.

“Headed to the garage, Gaby? We’ve got a fine one right here.” He grins, reading her by degrees. “It’s okay to take your work home every now and then.”

“I don’t have my tools,” she counters, a coolness in her voice. “And my work is all over there anyway. Far from _prying_ eyes and sticky fingers.”

“Point taken,” Solo says. He bows slightly. “Enjoy your evening.”

Once Gaby leaves, the American goes back to fussing over the decorations. His thoughts, however, are elsewhere, stumbling over the mechanic’s words.

Solo sighs—an irritating prickling of his conscience—before retrieving his own keys and slipping out the door after her.

He needs to go see Waverly.

 

* * *

 

Illya frowns when he sees Cowboy stroll out of the Englishman’s office. There’s an unusual urgency in his gait, though his expression appears… _pleased._

He holds up a hand, stopping the American in his tracks. Cowboy smiles. Something unnervingly sincere about it.

“Peril,” he drawls. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Is it? I am here to work. Even on days off. You, on the other hand—”

“Had my own, small matter to take care of.”

Illya’s eyes narrow with concern and suspicion. “You have mission?”

“None but my own, comrade.” The man claps him on the shoulder, ignoring the Russian’s growl. “Seems I’m past due for a holiday.”

“A holiday.”

Cowboy ignores his skepticism. His smile morphs into a smirk. “I hear the Iron Curtain is _lovely_ this time of year.”

Illya catches him by the arm before he can walk past. “Berlin,” he mutters, beginning to piece things together. “Gaby.” He starts to shake his head. “I already got everything from her apartment.”

 _“Not_ everything,” Cowboy says. “And I’m not going to her apartment.”

He gracefully disentangles himself and sets off down the hallway. Illya is stockstill, frowning. Frozen until the American breaks through the spell.

“Coming?”

 

* * *

 

Gaby ends up working in the garage overnight.

Her partners had sent word of their own secret assignment—a _need to know_ that evidently did not include her. She has been left to her own devices, but fortunately, their absence is exactly what she needs right now.

For all their best intentions, the men have a way of rearranging her priorities.

Gaby drags the sleeve of her coveralls roughly over her face. Her eyes are gritty and her body is screaming for a reprieve, but she pushes doggedly on. In three days, she will debut her pet projects… regardless of whether they’re ready or not.

Failure is not an option.

Gaby groans, climbs back under the car. She nearly jumps when a voice sounds above her, barely avoids hitting her head. She curses. The question is repeated.

“Do you think you’ll be done in time?”

Recognizing the timbre of her boss’ voice, Gaby slowly emerges from beneath the chassis. She looks like hell and she knows it.

Waverly tsks when he sees her, concern creasing his features. “Gaby,” he asks gently, “do you have enough manpower to get this done?”

“I’ll make do.”

The words are hardly convincing to her own ears, though she cannot, _will_ not concede defeat. Waverly nods, decisive, and shrugs out of his jacket. He begins rolling up his shirtsleeves, huffing when Gaby stares.

“Please, Miss Teller. You’re not the _only_ one who knows their way around an engine.”

 

* * *

 

He and Solo catch a red-eye back to London.

Illya’s body still hums with the fading flickers of adrenaline and the satisfaction of a job well done. Their impromptu mission had been a success. While he cannot take credit for Gaby’s gift, Illya can at least appreciate the intent behind it.

The American’s determined kindness had startled him, though he really shouldn’t be surprised. The watch on his own wrist is proof enough.

Illya keeps that in mind as he dials Gaby’s number. He tamps down his nerves when she answers with that dark and honeyed alto of hers.

Before Illya can talk himself out of it, he takes the plunge: he wants to know if she has plans that day and, if not, would she do him the honor of accompanying him to Savile Row?

It would be their own ‘Solo’ expedition, he tells her. The the two of them together, shopping for the Cowboy.

It had been a gift to hear her laughter on the other end of the line. Pride surged through his chest long after he’d hung up.

They are together now, strolling through the finest, bespoke tailoring establishments. Every inch the couple he dreams they’ll be.

Gaby teases Illya over his selections, always quick to counter with her own. She listens with rapt attention when he explains his plans for the items, how he will take the ordinary and then enhance it. New technology and new innovations.

She watches him work that night… a strange, but endearing role reversal.

Gaby is quiet, respectful of his work environment and how she knows he needs to function within it. She interrupts him only once, with a touch that stills him instantly.

The mechanic turns his hands over in her own, inspecting his palms and his fingers with studied care. He hums, jittery, resists the urge to return, to _further_ these affections.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Gaby smiles and that alone could kill him on the spot. “It’s just… what you’re doing is so precise,” she says, shrugging. “You’re very good with your hands.”

While Illya’s mind stutters into coherency, Gaby goes to fix herself a drink. An unsteady exhale, a flexing of his newly-blessed fingers, and a steel-edged concentration to get him through the night.

* * *

 

“A word of caution, Kuryakin.”

Waverly steeples his fingers, peers over his spectacles at the blond man before him. “If you go through with this, Mr. Solo _will_ have the upper hand, decor-wise. I’d hate to see you at his mercy.”

The Russian snorts. Derisive. “Cowboy will spend all his money on extravagances. Two, three items at most. I am not worried.”

“And this?”

“Would be for the whole team,” he says. “Not just… not just for Gaby.”

The corners of Waverly’s mouth are quirking upwards, so he takes another sip of tea. “And seeing as Miss Teller’s going to be the swing vote, it makes sense to get her on your side. A sound strategy.”

“I would _never—_ ”

Waverly does indulge in a grin then. “Of course not, Kuryakin. I’m merely teasing you.”

He is met with guarded uncertainty. His expression softens. “I think it’s an excellent idea. Good for all three of you and _very_ thoughtful.”

His agent nods, visibly relaxing. “Thank you, sir.”

Before the man can leave, Waverly stops him. “I’ve no doubt you can handle things yourself. But _do_ have Solo help you with the heavy lifting.”

Something like a smile crosses the Russian’s face. He nods again and turns on his heel.

 

* * *

 

 _All set_ , Solo thinks, as he knocks on Gaby’s door. The tickets are burning a hole in his pocket, his other gifts are safely in his apartment, the final preparations made. Just in time too. New Year’s Eve is a day away.

There _is,_ however, one last bit of business to take care of.

Solo grins when the mechanic finally answers the door. “What would you say, Gaby, to another friendly wager?”

“I’d say I had better call Illya.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby sits demurely at the table, her thoughts wearing holes in the carpet of her mind. Anxiety ripples through her, yet her voice is steady as she banters with her partners. A timer goes off. Solo goes to check on the oven and Illya, Illya whose jacket is now draped over her chairback, follows close behind.

The American barely gets the oven mitts off before Illya is critiquing the dish, demanding it be cooked longer. As soon as Solo begins to protest, Gaby makes her move.

She knows an opportunity when sees one.

Gaby’s sleight of hand may still need work, but she doubts even Solo could  find fault with her tonight. When the men rejoin her moments later—the American having emerged triumphant—her pulse is racing, her smile bright, and her throat bare.

In her pocket is a silver chain and the weight of all her wishes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two stories behind the name of "bee sting cake". The first is that the baker was stung while creating it and the other, which is the version I prefer, is that in the 15th century, German bakers protected their village by lobbing beehives at the raiders. A cake was made to commemorate their victory.
> 
> The phrase "Very Communist Christmas" comes courtesy of rebelliousrose. She had pitched it as a potential prompt for the gift exchange and I couldn't resist using it here!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	4. He's Sure The Boy I Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get to the fun part, I just wanted to share this with all of you! [This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfcAVejslrU) was created with the help of sound therapists and has been proven to reduce anxiety symptoms by up to 65%! Amazing. I discovered it earlier this week and it has given me such a sense of calm... as well as being a near-miracle worker for my writing! Really gets me out of my head and helps me to focus. Give it a listen (just NOT when you're driving!) and let me know what you think! :)
> 
> ALSO, I am now [on Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.com/ao3diadema/) with inspiration/aesthetic boards for my different stories! The one for this holiday series can be found [right here](https://www.pinterest.com/ao3diadema/small-cheer-great-welcome/). :)
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and for your INCREDIBLE kindness throughout! Your comments honestly mean the world to me and I am so, so grateful for all of you! <3

It is habit, rather than necessity that finds Waverly at headquarters that morning. He is the first one there, though he doesn’t doubt he’ll be the only one. It _is_ New Year’s Eve, after all. The Englishman takes a moment to revel in this soothing ghost town: the unattended desks and vacated offices. Negative spaces of a world at peace.

 _And long may it continue,_ he thinks, sending up a quick prayer that all borderless, shadow organizations will take _at least_ a day or two off. He huffs. _They’ve certainly earned it._

In six short months, UNCLE has never once been wanting for work. Rare is the moment when his men and women can collectively pause to catch their breath. _Citizens of the world,_ he calls them—agents defined not by genetics or governments, but by the interweaving of their lives in that great tapestry, Humanity.

And so, for these few, precious, golden hours, Waverly wishes them all a glimpse of another life: to be civilians celebrating like the rest of the world. In their own countries or abroad. With their loved ones by blood or the families of their own making.

It is this thought that carries him through the maze of departments and corridors, his footsteps a soft bassline under the hum of the fluorescents. He tries not to think too much about his own ‘road not taken’. He had relinquished both title and birthright; the holidays are a bleak reminder of the life and loves he’d left behind.

But Halloween and _Thanksgiving_ even, hadn’t been so bad. No, not bad at all. Christmas had been a relatively lonely affair, though he was glad to do his part to welcome back his top agents. His first team with UNCLE, and, admittedly, his favorite.

Waverly’s chest tightens slightly when he remembers the way Solo had invited him to their New Year’s Celebration. He’d hate to intrude, but somehow, he doesn’t think they will consider his presence an imposition.

The sentiment warms him as the lock clicks open and Waverly shuffles in. He flips on the light and freezes. One sweep of his sharp, blue eyes confirms his suspicions: his office has been broken into.

The empty hallways reverberate with the sound of his unbridled laughter.

 

* * *

 

A preponderance of paperwork, an inspiration for a new _Logan King_ story, and that old-fashioned, English sensibility to not overstay one’s welcome keeps Waverly occupied throughout the day.

Indeed, it is not until 8pm that he finds on the doorstep of _Eme,_ his agents’ chateau. The name had been an amusing inside joke: chosen from the Middle English word for “uncle”. Waverly smiles to himself as he knocks on the door.

Solo is wearing an apron and a smile when he greets him a moment later. “Evening, sir. You’re just in time for dinner.”

The American helps him out of his overcoat, inspecting the garment with studied nonchalance. “This is new, isn’t it?”

“Tradition,” he responds archly. “New clothes for the New Year.”

Solo grins as he hangs up the coat, looking decidedly pleased with himself. Waverly had marveled at the gift upon entering his office. It hung primly on the coat rack: double-breasted with a pointed lapel, Donegal tweed in an unusual herringbone pattern. A perfect fit, but could Waverly expect anything less from the American?

That hadn’t been the only new addition to his office. Solo’s partners had contributed their own, unmarked gifts. A tea service from Kuryakin, a typewriter (with painstaking upgrades) from the mechanic.

He sees the two agents now as he enters the dining room. They are completely in sync with each other as they finish setting the table. Solo has outdone himself, he thinks, as he surveys the spread of traditional Russian delicacies.

There is the distinctive Olivier salad, of course, but also _borscht_ and _shchi_ for the soups. He inhales the rich, warming scent of the _pirozhki_ , the fried buns with meat fillings, and smiles when he sees the _pelmeni._ These dumplings exist somewhere between a pierogi and the _jiaozi_ he used to enjoy in Hong Kong.

The American, Waverly notes, has even provided a variety of _blini:_ savory pancakes served with a variety of garnishes. He shakes his head, bemused, at the extravagance of the caviar Solo has provided.

Gaby and Kuryakin look up from their work to greet him and Waverly feels that small tug of belongingness among them. He scans the room to compose himself, nodding his approval at the modest, but tasteful decorations and the stunning _novogodnyaya yolka._

He turns back to face his agents as Solo rejoins them. The Russian, in particular, seems to be silently awaiting judgment. As well he should, given that he had taken point on all this.  “Excellent work, Kuryakin. Your team here has done a fine job.”

The man nods, ears pinkening slightly, as he begins to pour the vodka. Three glasses. A steaming cup of tea is pressed into his hands and he looks down, startled, at Gaby’s smile.

 _“Zavarka,”_ she explains when he takes a tentative sip of the strong, black tea. “Illya insisted we get a _samovar_ to prepare it properly.”

Gaby indicates the large, urn-shaped water heater with a shrug. “It’s already mixed with strawberry jam, but we have milk, if you would like? And gingerbread too.”

Before Waverly can respond, there is a soft _tsk_ from the Russian. _“Pryanik,”_ is Kuryakin’s gentle correction. “Is similar, but ginger is not required to make it.”

Gaby considers this on a hum. “That’s funny,” she muses, “because I _distinctly_ remember you adding ginger this morning.”

Kuryakin shrugs, amusement tugging at his lips. “You may call it Russian gingerbread, if you like, but _only_ because it is a holiday.”

“How magnanimous,” she teases, taking the seat he proffers for her. Waverly and Solo take that as their cue to sit down as well, and soon, the dinner is in full swing.

 

* * *

 

It is a lengthy, vibrant affair: the food excellent, the conversation lively, time flying past without any real sense of urgency. January 1st is gaining on them quickly, but the four of them are content to savor these final moments of 1963—a little over an hour now.

“As you meet the New Year, so you will spend it” is the Russian dictate and what better way to do so than among friends?

At long last, the dinner winds down and Waverly clears his throat. “There was a break-in at my office this morning,” he begins. Three expectant (and overly innocent) sets of eyes turn to him. He smiles.

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure we have no idea what you’re talking about, sir,” Solo says. His partners exchange a sly look and he does not miss the faint color rising in Gaby’s cheeks.

“All the same, Mr. Solo, the gesture did not go unappreciated. And, given the social mores of the occasion, it has _also_ not gone unreciprocated.”

Kuryakin immediately raises his hand in protest. “You did not need to do that, sir. You already gave us this house—”

“And tasked you with ensuring _Ded Moroz_ would come pay us a visit.” His eyes are dancing with humor as he continues. “But, seeing as Grandfather Frost is a bit busy at the moment, I agreed to fill in for him. Miss Teller here can be my _Snegurochka,_ if she’d be so inclined _.”_

“The Snow Maiden,” Kuryakin whispers to her. “She’s _Ded Moroz’s_ granddaughter. Her role is similar to your Santa Claus’ elves.”

Gaby nods, turning back to face him. “I’d be delighted.”

 

* * *

 

Her boss presents them each with a heavy, rectangular package, Gaby serving as a conduit between them. She hefts it in her hand, already having a clear idea of what it is. And going from the slightly pinched look on her partners’ faces, she assumes they do to.

They unwrap their gifts with varying degrees of care and dexterity. Gaby cries out, delighted, when she sees it…  hardcover copies of _Logan King: The Blood Ballet Affair._ She traces the embossed lettering with her index finger, frowning slightly when she gets to the byline.

“Magnus Grant,” she huffs. _“That’s_ the one you went with?”

“I couldn’t very well publish under my own name, now could I?” He gestures at the book again, a nervous energy behind it. “Open it.”

Her breath hitches when she reads the dedication— _To G.T., friend and co-conspirator—_ and, below it, the handwritten inscription, _Thank you for always believing in me._

Gaby bites her lip to ground herself, her eyes a little bright when she looks back up. “Thank you,” she whispers. Beside her, her partners are similarly absorbed in Waverly’s notes to them.

In a gesture that surprises them all, Gaby throws her arms impulsively around him. Waverly tenses, but recovers enough to pat her on the back.

Someone clears their throat—Illya or Solo, she’s not sure. Gaby hastily disentangles herself, clutches the book protectively to her chest.

Illya is frowning slightly, long fingers drumming over the cover. “It says here that this is Volume One.”

“Why, yes, Kuryakin,” Waverly says, “it’s going to be a series.”

She can almost feel the color drain from Illya’s face and buries her nose back into her book, trying her best to maintain an air of seriousness.

Solo, on the other hand, is a much greater master of his emotions, though Gaby can tell that he is similarly taken aback by the pronouncement. Logan King is a shadow agent in their little team… and, clearly, he’s not going anywhere.

“While we’re on this particular theme,” he says, stepping forward with books of his own to give out. “Peril, Gaby, these are for you.”

She rolls her eyes when she sees the title. _“Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.”_

“Exactly as promised,” Solo says, smug, “for the both of you. I trust that next time I make such an allusion, you will be able to appreciate it.”

Illya huffs at his copy of _The Hobbit_ , his frown deepening into a scowl when he sees the text behind it. “And _this,_ Cowboy?”

Gaby takes one look at the cover and chokes back a laugh. Even Waverly’s lips have thinned into a barely-concealed smirk. Solo gestures elegantly. _“That,_ Peril, is Louisa May Alcott’s masterpiece, _Little Women._ ”

He glances sidelong at Gaby, tosses her a wink. “A shining example of _true literature_ to broaden your cultural horizons. You, I know, are well-versed in the Russian classics. I think it’s high time you graduated to the American.”

Illya glowers at the implication and opens his mouth to make a retort. Gaby knows she should do something, but she is currently fixated on two, slim strips of paper tucked inside her book.

“What is this?” Hushed, reverent, an astonished tremor in her voice. The men turn to look at her. She holds up the tickets. “You’re taking me to see _Giselle?”_

Solo beams and takes them from her. He studies them closely, eyes widening suddenly. His hand rises to his chest in mock horror. “No, that can’t be right,” he mutters. “My dear, I do believe I’ll be out of town that evening.”

Gaby narrows her eyes, recognizing his play. He shrugs, eloquent. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find someone else to take my place.”

Illya stands just a little straighter. He edges closer to her, but Waverly beats him to it. The Englishman coughs politely, makes a slight bow. “I would be honored to accompany you, Miss Teller.”

A quiet, strangled sound escapes the Russian as he seems to deflate before her eyes. Solo’s expression is one of undisguised shock and Gaby is frozen in place.

Waverly’s kind features break into a grin. He bows again. _“Assuming,_ Gaby, that Mr. Kuryakin is otherwise indisposed that evening.”

He shakes his head at them, chuckling softly to himself. “Honestly, you three.” Waverly looks between her and Illya. “Would that arrangement work for the two of you?”

Gaby smiles, inclines her head in a nod. Her heart is thundering against her ribs, something bright and hopeful singing through her bones. Illya has gone completely still.

 _“Da,”_ he says when he finally recovers. “That would work.”

Solo arches a brow at him, self-congratulatory smirk firmly in place. He’s clearly enjoying his handiwork. “Are you sure, Peril? You haven’t even looked to see what date it is.”

“Does not matter,” he insists, an anxious glance at Gaby. “I will—I will be there.”

 

* * *

 

The books are safely deposited in their new “Lending Library” before they make their way to the drawing room. A screen conceals the entrance, though it is hardly needed with Illya standing guard before it.

“He wouldn’t let me near here all day,” she mutters to Waverly.

“The same way you’ve kept both of them out of the garage?”

A secretive smile tugs at Gaby’s lips as she shrugs. The Englishman had been instrumental in helping her finish her projects on time and the even more daunting task of moving them from headquarters unseen.

Anxiety ripples under her skin as she thinks about the impending reveal. She puts her heart and soul into her work, but there’s something much more personal, more _tangible_ about this one. Gaby exhales hard through her nose, steels herself into composure.

Illya eventually relents and removes the screen… to reveal, of all things, a gleaming, grand piano. Gaby rushes forward, childlike in her disbelief. She runs a hand over the polished surface, takes a seat on the padded bench.

She carefully, if hurriedly, lifts up the fallboard and lets her fingers ghost over the keys. A contented sigh before she turns back to Illya.

“This is mine?”

“Ours.”

Illya’s eyes widen and he stumbles over his next words. “I mean, it it is for the team, but mainly for you, yes.”

Her eyes flick up the music desk, at the sheet music that await her there. _“Ochi Chernye,”_ she reads with a smile. “How thoughtful.”

Gaby leafs through the score, pausing on a different piece. She would recognize that meticulous writing anywhere. Her heart skitters erratically. “Illya?”

His face has taken on an endearingly ruddy color. He swallows thickly. “Is an original composition,” he explains. “It does not have a name.”

She gazes at the music a moment longer before sliding off the bench. Gaby pads softly over to Illya, looks deep into his worried eyes. “You’ll have to play it for me sometime.”

“And I know just the opportunity,” Solo announces. He pats the bewildered Russian’s shoulder. “Excellent segue, Peril.”

“For what?”

“I might have pulled a few strings, arranged for you—well, for _Sergei Ivanov—_ to give a private recital next month. A talent like yours deserves an audience. A _real_ venue. You have the chance to play in one of the finest concert halls in all of London.”

When Illya makes no move to respond, Solo quickly adds, “That’s _if_ you’re up for it. No one’s going to force you into it.”

The Russian nods at last, hands shaking from something other than anger. Nerves, maybe, or gratitude. Gaby rests a hand on his forearm to steady him and he breathes deeply.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Illya hands the expertly-wrapped packages—one large, one small—to the American. He folds his arms over his chest. Not smug, but guarded. Uncertain.

“Gaby helped me,” he clarifies and her heart jumps at the sound of her name. Illya spares a fond look for her and she nods curtly in response, memories of the hours she spent watching him work sparking live wires in her imagination.

Solo unwraps the presents deftly: a tie pin, a set of cufflinks, and an attache case. Each item boasts an aura of expensiveness, not overtly flashy, but bolder than any that Illya would have chosen for himself.

The American hums. “And what exactly did she help with?”

A smile ghosts over Illya’s face. “The pin contains hidden camera, the cufflinks are bugged, and the case—”

“Has a concealed throwing knife,” she interjects with a grin. “Just like Bond’s.”

A low whistle from Solo as he inspects each gift with renewed interest. He smirks up at his partners. “So, could you say that these are ‘From Russia with Love’?”

 

* * *

 

It is Gaby’s turn, now, to give her presents. Much like Illya with the drawing room, she bars their access to the garage, a nervous fluttering in her chest. She smiles tightly, hand reaching for the doorknob.

A meaningful look exchanges between Solo and Illya. The former steps forward, stopping her. “Before we get there, Gaby, we’ve got something for you.”

“Another present?”

“Not exactly.” Solo ducks down behind the kitchen island and holds up a rusty, dented toolbox. “Can’t gift you with something that’s already yours, right?”

Her heart lurches into her throat as she reaches for it. “Your secret mission,” she says, voice hoarse with emotion. “You went behind the Wall. For _this?”_

Gaby’s breath is coming in rapid bursts, hands shaking as she opens the lid. Her tools are all there—her inheritance from her foster father—as well as a framed photograph. A young girl with her father. Her _real_ father.

Her vision is swimming when she looks up at the men, co-conspirators in this precious offering. Waverly’s eyes are soft and kind, Solo’s smile is as genuine as she’s ever seen, and Illya is staring at her with such raw tenderness, she aches with it.

Gaby stands on tiptoe to brush a kiss onto Solo’s cheek before turning to Illya to do the same. She sets her hand on Illya’s shoulder and he bends down to accommodate her. If her lips linger a fraction of a second too long, no one mentions it.

She clasps Waverly’s hand warmly between her own, looking at the three of them in turn. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Gaby flips on the garage lights, illuminating her two pet projects. A familiar-looking Metisse motorcycle and a car that appears to have come straight from the future.

Illya looks between her and the motorcycle, recognition slowly dawning. “This is mine. From before.”

She hums. It had been his favorite one. An unfortunate, but necessary casualty in the line of duty. “Fully restored,” she declares, catching Waverly’s eye. “With some help, of course.”

The Russian kneels down to inspect her work, paying it far closer attention than she would have expected. Illya is always thorough, but it is almost as if he is memorizing it, searching for her in every line and curve.

A few seconds later and he definitely will. “Key’s in the ignition,” she says abruptly. “Why don’t you take it for a spin?”

Illya looks up at her cautiously, frowning at something in her tone. He slowly rises to his feet. “Right now?”

Gaby shrugs, reaches to press a button on the wall. The garage door starts to raise automatically, revealing a picturesque path that is _bathed_ in starlight. “Perfect night for a ride, don’t you think?”

She swallows. “Just… don’t take too long, all right? We still need to make our wishes.”

Illya checks his watch and nods, before mounting the motorcycle. The engine roars to life and he disappears from view a moment later. Gaby turns back to Solo, too quick to appear natural, and gestures to the car.

“It’s a prototype,” she says. “I call it the Piranha.”

“The Piranha, huh? Very interesting name.”

“Very interesting _car.”_ Gaby raises the gullwing door, points to metal tubes built into the frame. “Rocket launchers,” she explains proudly. “You’ll also find flamethrowers, machine guns.”

She shows a startled Solo some of the highlights of the interior. “Radar screen there, that button deploys a parachute. Waverly and I are talking about adding marine propellers next.”

The American is at a complete and utter loss for words. Gaby leans against the side of the car, smirking at him. “Can your Mr. Bond top _that?”_

 

* * *

 

The Metisse hurtles through the grounds of their estate and then beyond, flying down the empty road. Illya grins as he puts the machine through its paces: it handles with extraordinary precision, even more than he remembers.

The cold air stings his cheeks and Illya breathes into the sensation, the exhilarating release, the single-minded focus. He can feel Gaby’s handiwork like a caress. It must have taken untold hours to salvage the motorcycle, to fix it, and make it better than it was before.

 _She’s done the same for him,_ he thinks. Gaby had picked up all his pieces and believed in who he _could_ be. Where others saw brokenness, she saw potential and has steadily coaxed him to rebuild himself: an agent ‘restored’. A better man.

It is only a few minutes to midnight when he finally returns. He sighs as he switches off the engine. His fingers brush over the keyring and he stills.

There’s something else on there.

When Illya realizes what it is, he stops breathing altogether. The barmbrack ring—shining and smooth as ever—but _not_ the one he carries with him. No, this is the one sized for _his_ hands, the one that Gaby wears around her neck.

Or, at least, she used to.

Illya scrambles to remove the band from the keyring, the chilled metal biting into his skin. He turns it over and over in his palms as if he could somehow make sense of it. A sudden thought seizes him.

He fumbles as he unzips his jacket, a tremor wracking through his hands as he reaches for the padded box in the inside pocket. He flips it open. Empty.

Illya rakes his fingers through his hair, the breath he’d been holding shuddering through him. He draws the jacket more firmly against himself, slips on the ring, and heads towards the door.

 

* * *

 

He sees her and Solo at the kitchen counter, pens hovering over the scraps of paper, as Waverly lights the candle. They will write their wishes as soon as the clock begins to chime, burn them over the open flame, and mix the ashes with their champagne.

A Russian tradition to toast the New Year, as foolproof as Cowboy’s fortune-telling fruitcake in granting wishes. His breath catches when Gaby looks up at him, dark eyes unfathomable, and slowly raises her hand.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the two rings on her finger: a black pearl and a gold band. Illya crosses over to her in three, long strides and pulls her into a kiss.

There is something desperate about the way he presses his lips to hers, something sweet and possessive and begging. He doesn’t care that Cowboy and Waverly are staring, focused only on Gaby’s soft gasp before she begins to kiss him back in earnest.

The bells begin to signal midnight and he reluctantly releases her, their breaths mingling as he rests his forehead against hers.

“Come on, Peril,” the American prompts. There is no mirth or malice or in the tone, just something subdued. _Pleased,_ almost. “You still need to make your wish.”

 _“This_ is my wish,” he growls in response. “This is all I have _ever_ wanted.”

He traces the line of Gaby’s jaw, before she takes a step back, interlacing her fingers with his. She turns to face the two men who are grinning widely at them. She laughs softly. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” they respond automatically.

Cowboy glances at their rings, tips his chin up in victory. “Does this mean the two of you are engaged now?”

Gaby tightens her grip on his hand, a smirk riding on her lips. “It’d hardly be the first time.”

Illya smiles softly at her, a million, muddled thoughts tumbling through his mind in three languages. _A proposal._ He needs to propose.

He is halfway to kneeling, when a quiet _woof_ halts him. Illya straightens suddenly and exchanges a look with his partner. The two men begin speaking over each other.

“Did you get—”

“That wasn’t me—”

Another bark and a golden retriever puppy wearing a big, red bow comes into view. Gaby drops his hand to clasp her own to her chest. Illya again looks to Cowboy, startled, _pleading,_ as the American throws his hands up, helpless. They turn as one to see the mechanic racing towards the dog.

_“Gaby!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "From Russia with Love" is a Bond film that came out in 1963! I couldn't help myself. :)
> 
> The Piranha is a 'real' car featured in the original TMFU series... a prototype with all the aforementioned accoutrement and then some!
> 
> A few months ago, I just had the idea of Illya reading Little Women and getting WAY too invested in it. It was an in-joke (much like Waverly's detective novel) that has now become part of this holiday universe... something I didn't know I needed until now. :P
> 
> Thank you again for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Diminutive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797994) by [Jaded_Girl_83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaded_Girl_83/pseuds/Jaded_Girl_83)




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